Welcome to the Wasatch Front 100, an ultramarathon with as many painful obstacles as miles to run. But if you're lucky, you'll bring along a support crew whose bizarre rituals will keep you buzzing.

We both knew that the only power the bumblebee tights possessed came from the two legs inside them, but what is any good-luck charm, really, but a way to channel your own inner strength? Once you decide that a foolish undertaking like this is important and worthy, it's hardly a leap to put stock in a pair of ridiculous tights. And so we gave ourselves over to silliness. We believed in the bumblebee tights.

We're in the thick of the night now, and the Universe has collapsed down to the space illuminated by our headlamps. I can sense Greg's fatigue setting in, so I start talking. I ask him about the childhood friend of his who is somewhere up ahead on the trail, and he tells me about sharing his first kiss with her sister in the women's room of a bowling alley. We reminisce about the red convertible, as if the memory could somehow will the universe to provide us with another magical moment. Maybe it's the conversation, or perhaps it's the banana kicking in, but Greg perks up as we reach the rugged final ascent of Bear Ass Pass, which the race bible calls Bear Bottom Pass, this being Utah. When we arrive at the top, I stupidly decide to take a self-portrait. The flash destroys our night vision, and we begin the rocky descent blind.

We arrive at Big Water at 1:12 a.m., eight miles and nearly four hours after leaving Lamb's. Bill is there to greet us with a thermos of coffee, warm clothes, and wise words. He helps me convince Greg that he's looking great, doing well, right on track. He might even mean it. We don't ask Greg if he wants to keep going. The default is yes. The next 14.5 miles constitute one of the more remote sections of the course, and if we continue on, there's no bailout. But the coffee has me buzzed with determination.

As we leave Big Water, Bill discreetly tells me we need to speed things up—Greg's running almost 20 minutes behind the pace he'll need to make the next time cut—so I take the lead. After a few steps, we cross a bridge and my headlamp illuminates a pair of feet poking out into the trail. They are attached to a horizontal body, laying atop a sleeping bag. "Are you okay?" I shout. Greg shines his headlamp on the sleeping bag, and that's when we see the other body. "Oh, yeah, we're just fine!" the couple giggles.

"Wow, now that's some pacer," Greg says once we've passed.

"Forget it," I say. "I never signed up for that kind of service."

We climb once again through a dense forest, eventually reaching an alpine meadow and Dog Lake, whose water shimmers in the starlight. Then we drop down again amid the aspens toward Blunder Fork. The mountains harbor a sort of magic at night, not a Where the Wild Things Are dreamscape, but a quiet sereneness. Nothing exists but the sound of our footsteps, our breathing, and the coyotes that are now howling, songlike, nearby as if to welcome us to their secret nighttime world.

As we cross an open meadow, Greg announces, "I need to poop." He heads into the trees, and I sit down beside the trail. I've been so focused on Greg that until now I haven't noticed the heaviness in my legs, and I savor the chance for a rest. Looking up at the stars, an incredible sense of calm settles over me. Reasonable people are in bed, asleep. It's just me and the coyotes and the Milky Way, and I feel completely at home in the universe.